


[interlude] Aurora

by Itar94



Series: Building Neutron Stars [8]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Afghanistan, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Building Neutron Stars: Interludes, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e01 Rising, Gen, Omega John Sheppard, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Unrequited, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Lyle Holland dies in Afghanistan and it’s almost like he'd known all along; he knew, the stupid bastard, that it would be the end and what his final words would be, all nicely planned out, and John never quite forgives him for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[interlude] Aurora

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of prologue to the Building Neutron Stars 'verse and there will be references to this story in [Discovering Fear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/951697/chapters/1861262), chapters five and six. If you haven't read any other stories in this series there's a lot you mightn't understand so I suggest reading [Flying a Ship With Silver Lining](http://archiveofourown.org/works/909110/chapters/1760649) first; even if this story is set pre-canon and "Flying a Ship..." starts later, in that story a lot of the 'verse itself is explained, so details in this fic might not make sense at all without those explanations.  
>  **Warning** for language and (canonical) character death.  
>  This hasn't been beta-read. There also are some very deliberate contradictions with canon within since this is AU. Also, I probably have gotten at least half of the facts in here wrong, but it's fiction and AU, so.  
> All shorter stories in this 'verse that aren't tied to a particular arc can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Building%20Neutron%20Stars:%20Interludes).

[ ](../../tags/Building%20Neutron%20Stars:%20Interludes)

**Aurora** /rɔːrə/  
[noun] _  
_ _an atmospheric phenomenon consisting of bands of light  
_ _caused by charged solar particles following the earth’s magnetic lines of force  
_ _derives from Lat._ aurora _: (n.) sunrise_

Captain Lyle Holland dies in Afghanistan and it’s almost like he'd known all along; he knew, the stupid bastard, that it would be the end and what his final words would be, all nicely planned out, and John never quite forgives him for that.

* * *

The first time he meets Lyle Holland, five years into the Air Force, it’s because of an accident causing him to be reassigned in the last minute, replacing Lieutenant Gregor on a resupply mission since man broke his leg. They are meant to be little more than lift loaders and eventually cover fire and anyone could have done it; at first, John is annoyed to be pulled into it so suddenly, away from the guys he usual works with and knows. But he finds himself hitting off with Holland brilliantly, because they share the same sort of dry humour and the man can actually understand his references and has also had a bit of issue with the brass. They’re on the same wavelength, and John can’t recall being that at ease with anyone before.

He’s twenty-four years old, Holland two years his senior, and the alpha’s scent is heady and warm. Being surrounded by such musks each day year in year out has hardened his senses, has shielded him, but he quickly learns to pick out that scent anywhere surprising himself with how easy it is to be around him.

And maybe that should’ve been a sign, in hindsight, that maybe it should have meant something (more), that he could have trusted him better but John has taught himself to never trust anybody.

Trust is dangerous and too easily turned against you. Trust implies more than words. Trust implies so much more; it means _giving_ , and he has nothing he dares to give. Not yet. Perhaps never.

* * *

They’re young and still a bit naïve and their eyes are clear and bright when they meet, but that quickly changes. Being sent to the front lines does that to you.

* * *

There are brief moments when Holland’s laidback, lightly amused mask cracks a bit and he looks at him a little oddly, not like an alpha looks at other alphas, and reaches out for his shoulder. Then John shrugs him off, can’t let him get too close. Maybe the alpha thinks he’s showing signs of post battle traumatic stress disorder when in fact John is realizing he needs a new dose of heat suppressants asap, but of course he can’t tell that, can’t let anyone know, and instead he slips away as quickly and conveniently as possible to escape from questions and sharp eyes.

 _I’ve got your back, Shep,_ Lyle had said more than once, quietly bumping his shoulder and John had grinned as per usual, everything appearing fine. As he’d responded (each time the same) that _I’ve got yours, Holland,_ he could almost pretend that Lyle knew his secret and was fine with it. Even pretend that if he ever let it slip it would be fine, one day, one day things would come around and the world brighten so that he and surely lots of others like him could stop lying.

* * *

He never signed up to kill people or drop bombs or make war.

He signed up because he wanted to fly, and he supposes he’s just another stupid, hopelessly romantic omega for thinking that. For thinking that the world would ever work that way. But he hopes, and hopes, that one day ( _one day_ ) ...

* * *

There are brief moments when Holland lays a hand on his back, a bit too low, lingering for just a second too long to be entirely normal. The alpha believes he’s just another beta, just a nobody with a knack for flying ( _Aren’t you a lucky bastard, Shep!_ Lyle had said after John had gotten them out of yet another scrap with some damned lucky, tricky manoeuvre that’s not exactly in the rulebook), just no one in particular. He has no idea, but John thinks that perhaps, maybe, he knows, maybe he has a hint of what’s going on and isn’t judging him. Perhaps.

But he doesn’t dare believe.

* * *

At one point he can’t take it anymore and he takes the days off that he’s gathered, packs a duffel bag and finds a good dark place to hide in. He gives no one any address or phone number or anything to lead them; that’s too dangerous, too close, but he hesitates a little all the same when Holland asks where he’s going. For a moment he could give in to that surge of emotion and be pathetic and weak and ask for support, but he cannot let himself do that, cannot let himself give in to that because that could take the sky away from him, so he walks away silently.

* * *

Almost all at once he regrets locking all the doors and the windows and hiding from the world, his body burns and hurts and he can touch his own loneliness, but he’s a trained soldier. He can endure. Must endure.

After riding out heat once, he promises himself not to be that stupid again, not to ever give in to those thoughts.

(How can he trust anyone when he cannot trust himself?)

And afterwards, he comes out fresh and clear-headed and even if there’s a lingering soreness in his chest, all hollowed out like an age-old abandoned mine without any treasures left to find, it’s nothing to worry about. He comes back to base and smiles at the right people and salutes at the rest and no one glances at him.

When Lyle asks how he’s holding up, John only half-pretends to mean it as he smiles and says _It’s OK, it’s OK, nothing’s wrong with me._

* * *

The almost last time he meets Lyle Holland, he’s just has an oddly strong gut feeling that something’s going to be up, something’s wrong. It’s a resupply mission behind enemy lines - just another mission, fly in, drop off, return in haste, done a hundred times before - it’s just another mission and missions can fail and he shouldn’t be as shocked as he is when the radio link is broken.

He has strict orders not to follow, but he’s never been good at being told what to do.

They yell at him and doors begin to close but he leaves anyway, takes a chopper and manages to get out of the hangar bay with a thundering heart. It’s an ambush, the enemy still watching the sky when he arrives - and he’s always been lucky, arrogantly thinking he could pull this off like all other stunts, it’s going to work out and Holland’s damn well going to owe him a beer. So arrogantly thinking it’s going to work out, he steers away from the blast too late, too late, right overhead of the already downed chopper clouded in smoke.

* * *

_Never leave people behind._

The irony of it all is so bitter and raw he could rip his lungs out.

* * *

The dust crawls down his throat and threatens to slowly suffocate him. He can still hear the explosion, the ringing bullets and the chopper twisting down, useless chunks of metal and wire. The crash site is a ruin of sand and black smoke and broken bodies, and for a moment John blacks out in confusion. There’s sharp pain piercing his thigh and he glances down, seeing a piece of shrapnel buried there but pushing away the realization of what it means. He tugs himself out of his seat with difficulty, using his knife to get free from the restraints, pulling himself up through the slashed open windshield and toward the second downed chopper.

Dex and Mitch are already dead, necks twisted and eyes blank, but he can still hear Holland’s rasping breaths. He’s lying pressed against the board, his legs crushed, his forehead bleeding. And John isn’t stupid, he knows this is a matter of minutes not days, a matter of moments not waiting, and they’re too far out for any rescue to come in time.

With the stunt he pulled, so fucking stupid (he’d do it again and again and again), he knows there is no one coming. But he refuses to believe.  
He hauls him out and Lyle blinks awake blearily as John is propping him up against a rock some way from the death zone, quietly cursing this one bad stroke of ill luck, that it should happen to them right now. He can’t walk properly and there’s no way for him to support Holland all the way to the nearest road, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“Hold still, I’m trying to patch you up here.”

Holland’s hand latches out to catch his wrist, all bloodied and wretched beneath the shredded flight uniform. “What the hell’re you doing here, Sheppard? ’s no use. They’re going to have your head if you play the hero again. For fuck’s sake, Shep, you aren’t a hero.”

The alpha already knows the answer and John doesn’t bother providing him with one, concentrating on bandages instead, letting Holland mutter feverishly about luck and sunlight and living to fight another day. If he listens too closely he mightn’t be able to let go.

* * *

“Shep, you’ve gotta get out of here,” Lyle murmurs, tiredly, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. “You've always been such a lucky bastard. You always survive. You shouldn’t even be here. This isn’t your mission.”

Get out of here.

Let go.

(But John has never been good at following orders.)

* * *

Next time he says it, he chuckles, throat parched but for the blood coating it; “You’ve always been such a lucky bastard, Shep. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Shut the hell up,” John cuts in sharply, because they never leave people behind and Holland knows, the idiot, he knows and they’ve always stuck true to that. If he doesn’t then what kind of fucking hypocrite wouldn’t he be?

But it’s too late, it’s too late, he can just sit here, Lyle’s head heavy in his lap and wait and wait and soon, soon it’ll be over, they know it. He’s going to stay and watch the finality of it, he won’t leave him, Holland’s got to understand that - he had to understand! The man is just so stubborn. Stubborn.

(John bites the inside of his cheek; if he could’ve stopped Holland from coming on on the mission, if he’d taken his place from the start, if he’d listened to that stupid gut feeling in the first place and given a _warning_ -)

“For fuck’s sake, Shep," Lyle says then, shifting for a bit, trying and failing to sit up but he barely manages to raise his neck. "You’re not meant to die here, see, but if you stay they’ll find us and kill you.”

“I told you to _shut up_ and be fucking still.”

It’s not like he’s got that much to live for anyway. Let the Taliban come and shoot them down. Let them come and tear them apart. Let them come.

* * *

It feels like a lifetime, the sun turning around the Earth two hundred million times, but in reality it cannot have been more than an hour at most because while awfully weak Lyle is a stubborn bastard. But it’s too late and eventually the man decides to just let go - let go, like a rope falling down, a tunnel opening up leading toward the endless darkness and John tries to persuade him not to go - to bear the pain, to bear it, _Help is coming, hold on, damn it -_

* * *

“That time, when you left, went off the map,” Holland whispers, “I know.”

“Okay,” John says, nodding shakily, tone steady but he stares at the alpha like he’s crazy and gods, that was nearly _five years ago_ and John hasn't entered heat since; if he knows then why the hell hasn’t Holland slipped a single word before? He hasn’t told or showed or even written a note for the world to find, and now he’s lying here dying. And then Lyle smiles a bit, revealing he’s chopped off a tooth.  “Okay.”

“Could’ve told me, Shep.”

But how? _How could I have?_ So John just shakes his head and Lyle doesn’t frown or spit words like _bitch!_ and _liar!_ in his face.

“Yeah. Trust, what kind of shit is that. Just. Did you ever - with anyone -?”

Like it matters in any way at all. Like it will ever matter, like he’ll get out of here and walk away and find another sunset. And then John laughs humourlessly, tears gathering behind his eyelids. “Fucking idiot, Lyle, d’you think I’m that stupid?”

“Thought you’d tell me, ’ventually - maybe even, maybe even trust me,” Lyle says, earnestly, god he should be quiet now and just breathe because at this rate he’ll slip away before he completes the sentence. “But, I know didn’t ’cause you’re so stubborn, fuck, Johnny, when I realized what a fuck-up you gotta be to end up like, like this. Could’ve told me, Shep, I’d have covered for you. I’ve got your back.” So fucking true and _earnest_ and John just wants him to shut the hell up. And then, when he shouldn’t, shouldn’t say anything more, Holland just looks at him helplessly and finishes, “I wanted you to be happy.” - like it’s the answer to the question of the universe and atoms and everything.

It makes a weird kind of sense and it’s like a hand has physically entered his ribcage trying to wrench his heart out, and John lets Holland cling to his vest with bloodied fists, struggling to keep looking at the alpha’s face and not show how pathetic he’s feeling.

* * *

_Hold on, damn it._

_Hold on, damn it._

_Hold on._

* * *

Holland doesn’t have a mate or kids, John knows this because unlike him Lyle has never had a problem talking about his personal life. His dad died in leukemia eight years ago and his mom of old age and he’s got no siblings. He’s got nobody, like him, even if he could have wanted to - he could have stepped up and claimed an omega and found happiness if he’d wanted to. He hadn’t though, god, he hadn’t, he never had and John hadn’t _noticed._

There is no one out there to send condolences to.

* * *

“Promise you ain’t gonna beat yourself up,” Lyle insists, keeps insisting while he should be saving his breath and heartbeat. “And for god’s sake don’t stop flying.”

* * *

Lyle Holland dies in Afghanistan and it’s like he’d known all along, the stupid bastard, that it would be his final mission and he’d planned out what his final words would be and what to confess and what to convince him.

And John might never forgive him for that.

* * *

_I wanted you to be happy._

* * *

They find him cradling Holland’s cold body after nearly two days, hiding from heavy gunfire between two sand dunes, Lyle’s dog tags tucked into the left side pocket of his TAC vest. It’s pure dumb luck that they spot him at all. In a way, John wonders if it would have been better if they'd been missed and no one found them but later, much later, when there’d be nothing but corpses and burned up ammo left behind.

But Holland, that stupid idiot, had made him make a promise. And John, the stupid idiot, hadn’t been able to make himself refuse.

 _You’ve always been such a lucky bastard,_ Lyle had laughed, coughing up blood dryly and his hand had begun numbing away where it was curled up around his P90, uselessly, unable to pull the trigger. _You’ve always been such a lucky bastard, Shep, don’t you give up now all for nothing._

* * *

Eight weeks and one court martial later, John finds himself sent to some remote station he’s never before heard of in Antarctica, where all is quiet and white and seemingly pure.

* * *

General O’Neill, who is unlike any General he's ever before met, fixes him with grey eyes like he'd had this kind of discussion with mad people before, trying to convince them to step through wormholes to other planets, to other damned galaxies - for fuck’s sake, space travel is _real_ and there are aliens and mutant genes activating ancient technology and what the fuck else that millions of people around the world _has no idea about_ and now they think _he_ should go - “You know, this isn’t all about you, Sheppard. It’s a whole lot bigger than that.”

“Right now, at this very second, whether I decide to go on this mission or not seems to be about me.”

“Let me ask you something. Why did you become a pilot?”

* * *

_And for god’s sake don’t stop flying,_ Lyle had urged, a last request, _don’t stop flying._

Flying is being free. All he has ever wanted to do is fly.

* * *

It’s either Antarctica or a dishonourable discharge.

It’s either Stargates or nothing more; no trail leading onwards because he’s never known anything else and a discharge would be like hitting the ground, the plane malfunctioning and he can’t eject from the seat.

It’s either an uncertain one-way trip to another damned galaxy (he’s not sure if he can truly believe that), or the end in this one.

He ends up flipping a coin, and he frowns down at the silvery surface, too bumpy to reflect the blue sky above, when the answer is revealed. Life’s much like a coin, each side leading somewhere different and fate decides how it’s going to flip. And a lot of it is random and unpredictable and that’s what makes life such a bitch.

Tails.

Random and unpredictable and, yet - whoever said he only had to flip it _once_?

* * *

“I think people who don’t want to fly are crazy.”

* * *

Lyle Holland dies in Afghanistan and it was like he’d known all along, the stupid bastard, that it be the end of him and start of something else, something huge, like he’d had this glimpse of the future but of course he hadn’t; it was just another mission in the war-zone and people die all the time and _it happened_.

Hadn’t it, though, hadn’t it then he’d still be alive and they’d be on base in a desert unknowing of the horrors and beauties hiding amongst the stars and probably not caring, too busy to survive. Hadn’t it happened, Lyle would be alive and John would never have been reassigned to Antarctica, never sat in that stupid chair, never found a sunken city.

Hadn’t it happened, John would never have told him his secrets, Lyle would never have revealed he already knew, and nothing would have grown from it.

Hadn’t it happened, he wouldn’t have ended up flipping that coin.

Hadn’t it happened, he might not even have continued to fly.

One day, John will forgive him for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Branching off/inspired by this story, there's now an AU of this AU 'verse, [The Thousandth Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/83374).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And Your Words, Engraved (to be remembered)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346752) by [Itar94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94)




End file.
